Be Honest With Me
by futurerustfuture-dust
Summary: They first time they lay together it's her choice, and again, months after they saw one another, several decades after having met each other, it's her choice. He respects that. PWP.


They first time they lay together it's her choice, and again, months after they saw one another, several decades after having met each other, it's her choice. He respects that. Knows it's what she needs. His metal fingers send shivers across her back as he slides them down her spine, goosebumps left in their wake before he firmly seats both of his hands on her hips. She's atop him, straddling him as though nothing has changed in the years between them when he knows that's ridiculous. Her skin is more scarred than it was then, her eyes have seen more than he is sure he's even seen, being in and out of cryo for as long as he has been. Her shoulders carry a heavier weight than he wishes she had to, and no amount of massages or sparring sessions can take that off. He kisses the line down her throat anyway, nipping at the place where shoulder and neck meet just as he remembers she likes, and she all but melts atop him, humming in pleasure as she dips her head down to press her lips against his. He fingers the belt loop of her jeans, her shirt long having been discarded to the side of the room with his own, and she maps the familiar planes of his chest with her fingertips, running her nails along scars she put there what feels like a lifetime ago. He bucks into her, but she rides out the motion with a soft hum of happiness before nipping at his bottom lip and grinning when she feels him come undone. He lets her divest him of pants first, groans when she takes him into her mouth, employing all the tricks he'd taught her himself, groaning when she runs her tongue around the base before sucking hard at the head. His vision whites out for a moment before she pulls herself off. At some point she'd taken her own jeans off-she's much better at this than she was their first time, though he supposes that's to be expected-and she sinks onto him with a soft sigh. It's every bit as perfect as he remembers and he groans at the familiarity of the sensation.

"Natalia, you feel perfect," he groans in Russian, fingers pressing so hard into her skin it'll bruise in the next few hours, but she's never been a stranger to walking the fine line between pain and pleasure. Likes it, if his memory serves him right (not that that's been something he can count on lately.) She hums though, not bothering the old name, the one he'd first known her by, enjoying his grip all the same, and he deepens the hold.

The pace she sets is slow, a rhythm as familiar to them as the backs of their hands, as the click of a safety being disengaged from a gun, as the flames that set themselves deep in their gut. She places her hands on his chest, right hand sprawling out over his metal shoulder, and his eyes latch onto hers as he bucks his hips to meet her, trying to get her to move faster. She grins and rides out the movement, a low whine leaving his throat as she refuses to pick up speed. It was her way, or none at all, he knows this. It always had been. She might play the submissive for the men she was forced to be with, but of her own volition? There is no place he would rather be than beneath her, watching her breasts bounce every time she rises and falls onto his cock, the feel of her tight around him better than anything he's known.

She finishes first, as is custom, and the soft cries of pleasure overload his senses when she's given him so very little else besides the huffs and whimpers of a woman enjoying herself. He releases one of her hips to run his good hand through her hair, the curls soft, and he leans up to kiss her hard on the mouth, sucking on her bottom lip until it swells and darkens with blood. She allows it, grinning, and after rising herself up so that he almost slips out of her, swiftly brings herself back down with a swivel of her hips, a trick she'd picked up for herself after a mission in Moscow. He barely stifles a shout by kissing her hard once more, letting her suck the sound from his chest, knowing there's more there than just pure desire. Something neither of them is wholly comfortable saying.

She finishes him off that way, bringing him to the highest peak of pleasure before allowing him to crash down with her. Wrung dry and grinning like an idiot, he watches as she slips from him, padding towards the door of their joint room in Stark's tower to start the shower. He doesn't leave her waiting too long before moving to follow her, as he always does, as he always will.

* * *

A/N: Thanks so much for reading! This is one of the first times I've written WinterWidow by themselves, so I hope it turned out a-okay!


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